i am too weak to be your cure
by Morghen
Summary: "You believe that preventing someone from becoming a monster, from becoming a Death Eater in the first place is more helpful than having to destroy one later." Fifty drabbles based on Regulus/Gideon, from Gideon's pov. For the OTP Boot Camp Challenge on HPFC. M&MWP. Directly related to my other fic "we will be the last ones standing." Rated T just in case. Nonlinear timeline.
1. acrid

**i. **_acrid_

* * *

You stop to watch the scene before you play out, your heart breaking for a stranger's pain. Brother shunned by brother, a river of blood connecting and separating them all at the same time.

You approach the younger of the two, capturing the rare sight of his usual apathetic mask leaving his face and leaving him vulnerable to emotions. And he's beautiful and he's damned to a fate of which you learned earlier today, and you just want to help him.

Fabian believes that helping the Order means one thing and one thing only: becoming an Auror, but you...well you disagree.

"He's hurting just as much as you are" (_"I'm going to save you from your future. I promise"_).

He turns and looks at you, spite and malice masking the pain which had been visible seconds before. His eyes are cloudy and grey as they bore into yours and his words are acrid as he spits them at you: "How do _you _know?"

You believe that preventing someone from becoming a monster, from becoming a Death Eater in the first place is more helpful than having to destroy one later. And anyways, you aren't so sure you could destroy anyone.

"I can tell" (_"I can tell you aren't one of them"_), you reply with a smile.

* * *

**Regulus/Gideon is a M&MWP so please give a mention if you write them and post the story in our forum. I will love you for eternity if you do write them, btw.**

**This is for the OTP Boot Camp Challenge on HPFC. There will be 50 drabbles/oneshots for Regulus/Gideon.  
**

**The title belongs to Brand New's song Guernica.  
**

**The drabbles are nonlinear (not in order) and most will probably directly refer to my oneshot "we will be the last ones standing".  
**

**Thanks mew for betaing!  
**


	2. agitated

**ii.** _agitated_

* * *

You sigh, but it goes unnoticed by your companion. His eyes are fixed on four figures across the grounds and his mind is too occupied to be bothered by you.

The four figures seem to be having the time of their lives, making the best of the heatwave that has fallen upon Hogwarts by swimming in the Black Lake. You watch as they push and jostle each other, their laughs ringing for the whole school to hear, no idea in their minds that someone is envying and despising their every move.

In a way, you hate all of them (even Remus) for the pain they're causing Regulus (but then again, you're not really sure if you could hate anybody). You can see the way Regulus looks at them, longing to belong, to be accepted, and maybe that's what you hate. That agitated feeling that possesses you, leaving you knowing that no matter how hard you try, he will always still wish for his brother's love, knowing that you will never be enough to fill that gaping hole Sirius left in his heart.


	3. breathless

**iii.** _breathless_

* * *

You turn to fly back towards him, squinting your blue eyes in an attempt to block the rain from them. It was your idea to ask him to help you with flying today, despite the terrible weather and his apparent disdain for water and rain alike. You hadn't asked, though, because you particularly wish to fly in the rain - or fly at all, in fact - you did it because rainy days always have a way of getting to Regulus and you wanted to keep him occupied.

It seems as though your landing will go smoothly, you do everything he instructed you to do, but the rain picks up just as you approach him. You shut your eyes for a mere moment and within that time, you crash into him.

With a heavy thud, you land directly on your chest and you can feel Regulus fall right beside you. You can barely hear the buzz of his words, shouts about how you can't just _fucking _crash into people or something like that, because all you can think of is how close his face is to yours, how his breath warms your cheeks. The feeling of wanting more than friendship, the feeling that you've been trying desperately to suppress is unleashed in full form and you're breathless and you can't think. Your eyes are locked on his lips and he's stopped yelling and _fuck, _you just would really like to taste him, just this once.

Your gaze meets his.

Did he just move closer?

What if he does want you, too?

But reality hits you (he doesn't like you like that, you prat) and you shake these dreams from your head and rise to your feet.

It's this moment that you realize you want him.

It's this moment that you realize you need to stay away from him.


	4. battered

**iv.** _battered_

* * *

You walk into your room to find him holding up an old battered and worn jumper that Molly had made you when she first learned to knit them. He studies it for a moment before turning around and realizing you're behind him. "I was just...well, Bill said every Weasley and Prewett had one of these and I wanted to see yours." He pauses a moment before asking, "Can I wear it?"

Your brow draws in and you wonder why he would want to wear that when he has plenty of fine clothes and money to buy more. But you just nod your head without questioning him. You watch as he tugs it over his head and can't help but think that he looks stunning in anything, even an old maroon sweater with a G stitched unskillfully in the middle.

Regulus tugs at the cuffs with his slender fingers and lowers his chin to survey his new outfit. He traces around the edges of the golden G and then smiles. "I wish I was a Prewett" escapes from his lips and he looks at you as though he just spilt an important secret.

You reach for his hand and gently guide him towards you. You lean your forehead against his own lightly and say, "I'm happy you're not."

"And why's that?"

"Because then I couldn't do this," you reply, a smug grin creeping across your face as you bring his chin up and claim his lips.


	5. calm

**v.** _calm_

* * *

Some nights you feel as though you've lost him.

You walk slowly, your bare feet silent upon the hallway floor, as you approach the bathroom. You can see the empty bottle once filled with some type of hard liquor lying outside the closed door and you know you shouldn't have left him alone all day.

There's the sound of fists crashing against glass coming from the other side of the door and the sound of an uncontrolled tongue screaming withheld truths. The demons have returned again, freed as the alcohol drowned his barriers and now Regulus has to face them. You give yourself a push and your hand grips the doorknob, shaking as your eyes await the heart-wrenching scene.

You don't want to see him like this.

Taking a deep breath of courage, you open the door. Regulus takes no notice of you and you are frozen on your feet, playing witness to the battle before you.

His fists are dripping blood, but he keeps blindly swinging them this way and that, making contact with the mirrors, with the toothbrush holder, with all of his invisible demons. His screams change from threats to pleas as he slurs thoughts and fears that he tries to hide when he's in control of himself.

The demons change shape before his eyes, housing themselves in the mirror that he's desperately trying to destroy, morphing from his mother, to Sirius, to his father. You keep track by the content of his shouts (_"Why do you want me to be one of them?" _and _"Why did you lea_ve_? I fucking needed you!" _and _"Why __don't you love me?"_ ).

And you know when it becomes his own reflection staring back at him because that's when he attempts to break the mirror with all he has, smudging the only image you've been able to see this whole time with the blood that's killing him. (_"I HATE YOU - I FUCKING HATE YOU!"_)

"Regulus." You try to keep calm, but you can barely even manage to say his name.

But, just as the previous time he tried to lose himself in the bottle, he can't hear you. You know there's nothing to be done except watch on, see him hopelessly fight his past and future, struggling back and forth with what he knows is right and what his parents wish to be done.

As you stand there, watching him crumble beneath the pressure his name puts on him, you know.

He's too far gone.

But you won't (can't) let him go without a fight.


	6. carcass

**vi. **c_arcass_

* * *

"I know what you're doing."

You've always hated the way Fabian does that - the way he just seems to know everything, no matter how hard you try to hide it. Your fingers slide over the grooves in the table and your eyes refuse to meet his because you know what he's going to attempt and you just wish he would stay out of it for once. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Fabian leans towards you from across the table and his voice is lowered so as to not awaken Regulus, who is still asleep in your room. "Gid, you can't save him. He's just going to be another Death Eater and there's nothing you can do."

Your jaw tightens and you shake your head. With a deep breath in, you look him in the eye, seeing your better and worse half. The concern on his visage is purely genuine, but he just doesn't understand. "I love him."

"Do you think _that's _going to make a difference when he has orders to kill you? People like him, they can't love, you know? Soon enough he won't think twice about killing you and won't look twice at your carcass." Fabian pauses and with a sigh says, "He doesn't love you, Gid, and he never will."

You stare at him and want to tell him just to shut the fuck up, to tell him that he doesn't know anything, to tell him that Regulus loves you more than he, your brother, ever has, but you don't. Your lips stretch thin, trapping these words and all they release is "Just go." You're afraid of what you might say if he stays any longer.

Your twin stands up and looks down on you, disappointment as clear as day on his face. "I care about you, Gid, even if you think I'm just being mean or overprotective. I just don't want to see you get hurt."


	7. drawn

**vii.** _drawn_

* * *

You collapse on your four-poster bed, the curtains drawn, blocking you from the rest of the world. Your breath fights to leave your chest - the weighing realization trapping it inside you, pressing heavy and making the simplest tasks, such as breathing, feel impossible.

They say love hits you like a brick.

But the problem is you don't love him (_right?_).

You can feel your throat well, your heart flutter at the mere thought of him, and this just isn't right. You are his friend, and sometimes you're unsure whether he even considers you that, but nothing more - nothing more.

Because anything more...well, that would be wrong.

Wrong.

But there's just something about the way he makes you feel - as though he needs you, not Fabian, not you and Fabian, but only _you_. You've never experienced that before. And after years of shared friends, shared rooms, shared belongings, the thought of having something (someone) all to yourself, the thought of having something Fabian wouldn't want (and couldn't have)...well, that's rather appealing.

So maybe this, whatever this is, wouldn't be so bad. Maybe Regulus needs someone for himself, too.

(The only problem is he would never want you.)


	8. sin

**viii.** _sin_

* * *

Staring into those conflicted grey eyes is how you wake up and you would do anything, commit any sin to wake up this way every morning for the rest of your days. He smiles, perfect lips stretching over perfect teeth, and then kisses you. "Good morning," you half-say, half-yawn.

He laces his fingers with your own, giving them an affectionate squeeze. "Do you _have _to go to work?"

It's your turn to grin when you see his bottom lip jut slightly out as he questions you. You know he hates when you go to work, but you need the money to keep this flat, and besides, it's nice to get out of the house, even if he doesn't seem to think so. Sighing, you sit up, freeing your fingers from his grasp. "I'm afraid so."

You can feel him shift on the bed and then his breath warms your neck and tickles your skin. His chin rests upon your shoulder as he sighs, blowing your hair forward. "I don't want you to go."

"Then come with me. You know Florean doesn't mind if you're there."

"And what, watch all those witches get ice cream just so they can talk to you?" Regulus moves away from you, lying back on the bed, and folds his arms. "I would rather not."

"Come on, Reg, my shift always goes by faster when you're there..." When he doesn't reply, you turn and kneel beside him. Leaning towards his ear, you whisper something.

This gets his full attention and he moves onto his back, looking up at you with wide eyes. "You wouldn't."

"I most definitely _would_."

Regulus' brow draws in, but after a moment, he sighs and agrees, "Fine, I'll go."

"Fantastic - now, go get ready," you say, with a grin.

"I dislike you, Prewett."

Laughing, you lean back down and give him a chaste kiss. "Not as much as you would dislike dinner with Fabian. Now go get ready - we're going to be late."


	9. whisper

**ix.** _whisper_

* * *

You lie on your stomach, hiding behind the curtains of your bed as the day slowly ticks away, seconds feeling more like hours. Your fingers drag over the raised threads keeping your comforter together - patterns of golden lions and every shape imaginable. You're sure you could find anything and everything in those patterns if you just looked long enough. And maybe you will, maybe you will spend the rest of your weekend searching for specific images hidden in your blanket instead of dealing with the world, instead of dealing with Fabian.

Fabian. His name makes your head hurt and your annoyance flare because he can't understand anything and has no wish to listen to you. He believes that whatever he wants is what you should want, that whatever he does is what you should do, and no amount of protesting will sway his mindset. Your latest argument centered around your future and how, to him, the only way to make yourself useful in this war is to become an Auror.

You don't want to become an Auror. You can see no satisfaction in being on the front lines, possibly killing people. And maybe people have forgotten that Death Eaters are people just as much as anyone in the Order is, but you haven't.

Sighing, you push yourself up into a sitting position. You've already missed breakfast and lunch due to avoiding your brother and your stomach refuses to allow you to skip out on the last meal of the day. You reach for the scarlet curtains and are just about to push them aside when you hear someone enter the dormitory.

"He's still your brother, though," says a voice you recognize as Remus'.

The footsteps stop abruptly. "He promised to take the Mark" reaches your ears in a harsh whisper.

"You should still talk to him, Sirius. Maybe you can change his mind - there's still time..."

"I can't help him anymore, Moony. He's chosen his path for himself."

And that's when the idea comes to you, a mission that might not only assist the Order in a way you can justify, but also save another victim of the war at the same time:

befriend Regulus Black.


	10. enamored

**x.** _enamored_

* * *

Some nights you stay up especially late just to watch him fall asleep first.

The covers are pulled down to his knees, his bare skin dusted in a light sheen of sweat as the humidity hovers over the two of you. It's really too hot to use a blanket at all, but Regulus insists that he could never sleep without his feet at least being covered. He's on his side, facing you, his eyes shut off to the world and all his worries and you can't help but take notice of the peacefulness that only appears when he's dreaming. Warm air leaves his lungs in a steady rhythm, only to be captured in your own. You smile to yourself, playing little tricks on your mind, convincing yourself that his exhalations are what's keeping you alive, that you couldn't breathe without his breath. It's not true and of course you know that, but it seems almost nice to be the weaker one, to have him fighting to keep your next day possible (instead of the other way around), even if it's only pretend.

And the more you think of it, the more it seems as though it could possibly have some truth behind it. Maybe this is merely just some late night/early morning crazed belief, but you suddenly realize that he is your breath, that you couldn't live without him. You consciously cross that line, moving on from feeling like an enamored teenaged boy to feeling like an old frail man who fell in love with someone as ephemeral as a flake of snow. You can do everything in your power, you can devote your every second to him, but in the back of your mind will always live the possibility of him eventually melting into his parents' wishes and leaving you alone.

A flashback surfaces and you suddenly recall your winters spent with Fabian before either of you entered Hogwarts' doors. The pair of you would roll the fallen snow into misshapen spheres to create snowmen, you would dress them up in old clothes, silly wizard hats and pipes your father had but never used. You would give them each names, make up stories in which they played significant parts, and when you were lucky, your father would charm them to move around the yard. It was great fun, numerous hours spent getting to know, getting too attached to such transitory beings, but you can remember hating it at the same time. You can remember that wrenching feeling of knowing that once you left the coldness of the outdoors, that once you went into your home to be warmed by hot cocoa and to play other games with Fabian, the snow would melt and your snow-friends would be gone by morning.

And as you look at the wizard beside you, all you can think is that there is no way in this world or any other world that you are going to let him disappear in the morning air, that you will willingly brave any storm to keep him by your side.


	11. fascinated

**xi.** _fascinated_

* * *

The only other time you see him completely at peace is when he is with Bill and Charlie.

You watch from your seat on the overstuffed sofa and can't control this smile that spreads over your lips. Regulus and your two nephews are lying belly-down on the floor of the living room, drawing scenes from far away places on pieces of scrap parchment. There's the brightest smile on Regulus' face and you slowly raise your Muggle camera up and, with a flash, capture it forever. None of them are fazed by the flash - all have grown accustomed to it by now.

As the photograph slides out, you look down at it. And, even though the picture does no justice to the actual sight, you can't bring to mind anything more breathtaking than that smile on his lips.

You set the Polaroid down on the coffee table among the others that you've snapped throughout the day. You look up and watch as Bill stares at Regulus and the scratchy images he creates with his quill. Ever since they first met, your eldest nephew has been completely mesmerized and fascinated by anything and everything Regulus does or says. And you can tell how much it means to Regulus; you can see a sort of fulfilling satisfaction move across his visage whenever Bill embraces him or asks for advice or anything with which he can help.

Witnessing these actions, these changes within your best friend and partner, you can't help but believe that everything would have been different for him if only he had been the eldest brother. You would almost bet your life that he could've made the right choices while guiding Sirius on the path away from their parents' twisted ideas and wishes. Regulus would have been capable of everything his brother is not, but it's too late for that now - or rather, it had been too late since the moment he had been born. Now you can only hope that the responsibility he feels for Bill and Charlie will be enough, that perhaps he'll make the right choices for them because you're not sure if he would do it just for you.


	12. fear

**xii.** _fear_

* * *

You smile as he cautiously lowers his foot down into the water-filled tub. After much pleading, he finally agreed to try and get more comfortable with water, and you decided that a bath would be the best place to do that. No currents, not a lot of water, and a very slight chance of drowning.

Regulus slowly sits down across from you, his legs bent and his knees on either side of one of yours. The water moves toward him, breaking against his protruding clavicle but settling back down by his chest. His face is twisted into a scowl, his knuckles white as he clutches the tub's rounded rim.

"See, it's really not that bad."

He glares at you and you can't help but think that Basil would most likely have the same look on her face if placed in water. He tries to relax as he leans against the tub's side, but the uncomfortable look on his face doesn't leave and his fingers stay locked on to the edges. "I still don't get why we have to wear swim shorts."

"Because we're focusing on your fear. If we weren't wearing them, I'm pretty sure your fear would be the _last _thing on my mind." You teasingly stick out your tongue and then splash a little water at him. His vice grip tightens as the drops rain on his head and his glare intensifies. You sigh, seeing you'll get no laughter out of him today, and ask "Why are you afraid of water, anyway?" This question has been something about which you've thought since Bill exposed the other wizard's secret. You can comprehend the usual fears people have, like death or werewolves, but water seems to harmless by comparison. There are so many more frightening things in this dark age.

Regulus doesn't answer right away; instead, he looks as though he's thinking about your question. You watch as memories unknown to you flash before his eyes, you watch as his lips draw slightly down into the lightest frown, you watch as he tries to pinpoint his fear to an exact day, an exact moment. And after some time passes in silence, he blinks back to the present and shakes his head. "I...I don't know."

"Usually there's a traumatic thing that happens," you suggest. "Like, Fabian's afraid of cats because our grandmum had one that used to single him out and ambush him every chance it got."

"Makes sense why he avoids Basil like she has the plague," he says, but then shakes his head once more. "I mean, I never learned how to swim, but it's not swimming I'm afraid of...it's just _water_." A slight shudder runs through him, and you can feel his toes curl against your foot. "I can't remember the last time I've actually taken a bath...showers are much less scary."

You bite your lip and hold back a laugh. "No bubble baths for Regulus, then?" The humor in your voice seeps through.

His glare reappears but is quickly replaced by a smile. "I guess it's a stupid fear," he admits, "but at least I'm not afraid of _cats_."

This time you do laugh. "That's good, because, I have to say, I'd pick Basil over you any day," you tease, splashing him again. "She's much less work and a lot warmer to cuddle."

He laughs as well and it's nice to hear that laugh with all this talk of fears. Slowly, he removes one hand from the edge of the tub and hovers his fingers over the water, as though there's a chance it could burn him, before splashing you. The water wets your face and you recall the first snowball you threw at him those many months ago.

You splash him back, and the fight ensues from there.


	13. hatred

**xiii.** _hatred_

* * *

His hair is still damp from the water fight earlier that evening, and the ends cling together in strands that tickle your nose as he leans down to kiss you. He lies down close beside you, his head resting on your pillow instead of on his own. You're not sure if he's ever used his own pillow since he's arrived at your flat, but you're not complaining. The closer he is to you, the happier you are.

"Gid?"

There's that certain pitch in his voice as he says your name, a special ring to it that you've connected with him wanting to ask something but not knowing how or if he should. You open your eyes, turning toward him so that the tips of your noses almost brush. Even though it's dark, you can still see him perfectly - the blurry outlines of his features highlighted by the beams of the streetlamp filtering in through the curtain and all of the details from memory. "Yes?"

He doesn't ask his question right away. Instead, he just bores into your eyes as if all of the answers to the world's questions could be found in them. The intensity of his gaze makes you want to break, to tell him you know about his promise and to promise you'll save him, but you don't. You just blink and break the connection. He looks at you a second longer then finally asks, his voice low in an almost whisper, "What are you afraid of?"

"Losing you" is the first thing that comes to your mind because it's always there anyway, but you don't say it because, if you're being honest, your greatest fear is much more than that. It has always haunted you and you've never before been made to face it, but now, with Regulus in your life, you think facing it might be inevitable. You sigh and feel slightly sheepish just as anyone else does whilst admitting a fear. "Being alone."

Regulus watches you, seemingly looking for any indication that shows you're keeping something from him, but none are found. His fingers find their way to your own and tangle themselves with them.

You can tell that he doesn't know what to say, so you save him the trouble and continue on. "I've never had to be alone, with having a twin and all, so when I am alone I don't know how to function. It used to make me feel some sort of hatred toward Fabian because I depended on him so much, but I guess I've just accepted it now."

"So when I go back to Hogwarts, are you going to find some other bloke to live with you? To keep you company?"

And, though you know he's only joking, you can detect some genuine concern in his words, as if you could just replace him, as if you'll ever be able to replace him. "I dunno," you say, "I _did _hear something about Sirius Black fancying wizards, though - might explore that rumor, you know?"

He playfully kicks your leg from underneath the blanket, but that smile of his plays on his lips. "Maybe I'll just stay here and not finish my seventh year," he muses, his voice becoming noticeably sleep-ridden. "Maybe...maybe I'll just stay here forever, with you."

"I'd like that," you say, and quite honestly you can't bring to mind anything you would like more than to keep him here, safe and unMarked, forever.

"Me, too."


	14. helpless

**xiv.** _helpless_

* * *

You can't stand to look him in the eye because you're ashamed, because you're embarrassed, because you're sure as hell that it would reveal all of your feelings to him instantly. So instead, you back as far away from him as you can, until the wall of the narrow brick alleyway stops you and you focus your eyes, not your attention, on your shoes. No, with this proximity, there is not an ounce of your attention that doesn't belong to him and him alone. "I just don't think we should be friends." You push the words off your tongue and breathe them through your teeth. You can hear them float across the air, hollow and emotionless, strange and foreign, in your voice but not in your truth.

"Why?"

The single word rings in your ear with a strength you hadn't expected and you can't help but look up at him. The visible pain on his face is shocking and you can feel your jaw clench - never had you thought that this, this friendship had meant so much or anything at all to him. "Don't ask me, Regulus," you half-plead, but you can feel yourself giving in, you can feel that withheld truth rising slowly to your mouth, biding its time to escape.

"Just tell me," he demands.

You turn away from him, exhaling any control over your words into the sharp November breeze. "I don't feel like a friend to you... I didn't know what it was..." You pause, still unsure as to why you're revealing this to him, knowing damn well there's no way he'll ever feel the same. "But when I almost kissed you the other day, I realized that I - well, like you _that _way."

You hesitantly turn back to him once more, helplessly and silently hoping for any sign of acceptance on his visage, but you know you'll find none. He just stands there, frozen in place, his lips slightly parted in what you're sure is shock or maybe even disgust. And you hate yourself for feeling this way, and you hate yourself for getting so close, too close. This was supposed to be a mission, a way to help the Order, not some mess of one-sided longing. And you've ruined it because now you're sure he wants nothing to do with you, you've damned him just as everyone else has, though in a different way. "This is why I didn't want to tell you," you say, moving to leave.

As you take a step back toward the village, you hear his voice: "Wait." So you wait. The only noise in your ears is the pounding of your heart, each beat deafening, each second waited painful. You just want to disappear into the chilling air, fleeing this embarrassment, but you don't. You wait.

"But what if I feel the same way?"

The relief that spreads over you warms your body head to toe and a smile stretches across your face. You look at him and his eyes are already locked on you. Regulus takes a small step toward you before swallowing nervously and reaching out for your arm, his fingers wrapping lightly around your wrist once more, but this time you don't pull away.


	15. indifference

**xv.** _indifference_

* * *

You walk down the uneven streets of Diagon Alley, slow and alone. Laughing children, laughing teens enjoying each others' company surround you, all of them trying to make the most of the last days of summer. You are not too much older than they are, but you feel centuries older. You look at their smiling faces smiling in the face of such tragedy to which the world has come and you can't help but envy their carefree minds. It's hard to imagine that you were once just like them.

You almost pass by your place of former employment, but you pause and gaze at the ice cream shop. The seat that Regulus had always claimed as his own is empty and you would give anything to see him sitting in it once more, just once more. You can draw up his slouched shape perfectly from memory, elbows on the table with a coffee sitting in front of him even on the hottest of days, his lips pursued into a pout despite his best effort to seem indifferent to all the witches' advances towards you. You can remember magicking him bowls of coffee-flavored ice cream from behind the counter and the one time the bowl tipped and spilled onto his head.

You smile to yourself and go to the counter. You haven't been here since you quit and you had promised yourself never to step foot here again because it was too full of memories of him. But something draws you in, and you order a single cup of coffee and sit at the other side of _his _table.

The place itself brings a sort of sickening nostalgia that hurts, but nothing fills you with his memory more than the smell of coffee. No one in your home growing up ever drank coffee - it was always tea or pumpkin juice - so when you met Regulus, it was a smell singular to him. When he was around, so was the presence of the drink: coffee-tinged kisses, the scent that filled your home in those summer mornings.

At first, after he left, the smell of the drink made you nauseous, but now you find it sort of comforting. Comforting in a way that reminds you that it was all real, that all of those moments spent with him were real. As if, through the scented steam, he is present, as if he is still near and not who-knows-where doing things about which you wouldn't want to know.


	16. silence is golden

**xvi.** _silence is golden_

* * *

You're awoken by a pair of lips pressing lightly against yours. You blink a few times, trying to become accustomed to the bright sunlight and consciousness. Your eyes focus on his face, which is resting upon the same pillow as your own. His pallid complexion looks ghostlier than usual, bringing out the pink of his lips and the red in his bloodshot eyes.

The expression on his face is made up of a thousand and one apologies that you know he'll never say. That's something you've realized about Regulus: he never apologizes. And sometimes it's better like that; the look on his countenance expresses his feelings more than his words ever could. So in a way, his silence is golden, even though you wish you could hear him say sorry just for once.

"Can you promise me something?" you ask. After the previous night, you don't know whether or not you can deal with that again. Twice you've witnessed him like that and a third time might prove to be too much. Your fingers snake across the sheets and find his as you see the apology turn into shame and you can feel the raised cuts on his hand. You were able to remove all the glass, but couldn't remember the spell which would've healed him completely.

Regulus twists so he now lies on his back and isn't facing you. His eyes lock on the ceiling and you can see him flinch as your finger traces over a practically deep gash on his palm. "Okay," he breaths slowly, and you can tell he knows what you'll say before the words leave your mouth.

"Can you promise me you won't drink like that again?"

The question hovers in the air, heavy and darkening the mood as you touch upon a previously unspoken subject. His brow narrows and he lifts his hands up to examine them. Both are marked with red lines, each a reminder of last night, a reminder of the screams and pleas, a reminder of him fighting with fate and fear.

He nods.

You smile, but it feels halfhearted on your lips so you stop and instead reach for his hand once more. Although you don't say it aloud, you promise him never to leave long enough to give the opportunity for him to consume that much alcohol again.

* * *

**Note: this one takes place the morning after drabble five.**


	17. jagged

**xvii.** _jagged_

* * *

"Professor," you say, a split second's decision after days of indecision, "can I ask you something?"

The white-haired wizard stops, his hand letting go of the door through which he had been leaving, and he turns around. There's the slightest smile on his lips and you can't help but wonder if he already knows what you wish to ask before the question can be formed into audible words. "Of course, Mr. Prewett."

You scan your surroundings just to make sure that your living room is empty of the other Order members who previously had filled it. There's no one there, save you, Dumbledore, and Basil, so you look back at him, trying to figure some way of wording the question that's been haunting you for some time. "It's just that -," you pause, lowering your eyes to the jagged remains of your chewed fingernails, a habit which you took up late last month. "It's - well, I care about Regulus Black and I - well, I don't want anything bad to happen to him, but I know he's a Death Eater and all now. And, well, is there any way to keep him...safe?"

You chance a sheepish look at the elder wizard, thinking there is no possibility that he would or even could consider your request. The Order is about saving the innocent, not protecting the wicked, and you know that, but you had to ask. Confusion runs through you when you see a pitying look upon his face, one that almost says he knows how you feel, that he knows how it is to be in love with the damned.

And then that expression vanishes as soon as it appeared, replaced by just another smile, but this time it's more somber than before. "It's funny," he replies, "just the other day, I was asked a similar question in concern about the same person. And I'll tell you what I told him: it's not within my power to guarantee his safety, but rest assured that Mr. Black will not be purposely harmed under my orders."

This calms your concern slightly - it's a better answer than you had expected, but now a new question is in your mind. "Who else asked about him, if you don't mind my asking? Was it Sirius?"

Dumbledore takes a step onto the top stair, before turning around, his smile now looking more amused than anything. He shakes his head and says, "No, actually...that person not only asked a similar question, but he was similar himself, regarding your looks. I confess, I momentarily mistook him for you." And with that, he leaves.


	18. jubilant

**xviii.** _jubilant_

* * *

You walk into the kitchen where Regulus is very angrily attempting to cook a supper that doesn't taste like something from Hog's Head. The heat from the stove radiates through the room, mixing uncomfortably with the hot summer air. His shirt lay on the table, Basil lying on top of it, and you almost shoo her down but decide against it. That is a war you will never win.

You move behind him, your fingers dancing their way around his bare stomach, and you can feel him jolt in the momentary shock of your proximity. Your hands find each other from either side of his stomach and you bend your neck, resting your chin on his shoulder. "Whatcha cooking?"

"I don't fucking know," he says, his voice coming out more like a huff than anything else. "It was in that cookbook your mum gave you, but it doesn't look like it should." He gestures toward said book and you look at the picture shown on the page and then peek over his shoulder to see what's in the pot. You hurriedly bite your lip to suppress laughter from spilling from your mouth at the sight of the food in the pot which is a completely different color and consistency than it should be. He continues to stir the substance with much more force than necessary, as though that, and staring at it crossly, will make everything better.

You smile to yourself, moving your hands back to his sides. Your fingers settle on the spot where his lower ribs slightly jut out and, with the knowledge that this could make him much angrier, you tickle him.

You have never met anyone who is more ticklish than Regulus. He yelps with surprise and tries to squirm away but drops to the floor in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. You move down to your knees and continue to tickle him, laughing with him as he withers on the floor.

"St—," he starts to say, but his word changes into laughter. He tries again and again to make a fully coherent sentence, but with no luck. "Gid—seriously—"

And you just shake your head, a jubilant smile on your face as you say, "Not stopping - not until you promise to stop being so pissy! Be happy, Reg, be happy!"

He squirms around, his hands trying to grab your fingers and stop the attack on his sides, but each time he gets them, you tickle him harder and he can't help but let them go. "Okay," he chokes out. "Okay, I'll...be...happy."

You stop and smirk down at him, smiling at his flushed cheeks and parted lips.

"Merlin, I fucking hate you," Regulus says after he is able to catch his breath, but his smile says differently.

"Hey, those aren't happy words! You promised!" you tease as you move back to tickle him once more.

His eyes widen in alarm and he snatches your fingers with his before you can reach his sides again. "Fine, I love you very much. Is that better?"

He holds onto your hands until you agree with a nod. "But I love you much more." And that is a war he will never win.


	19. kindly

**xix.** _kindly_

* * *

You lie in his bed, the new year creeping its way closer minute by minute, the ticking of the silver clock keeping track of its journey. It's cold in the dungeon and you wish you could've successfully talked him into spending the night in your dormitory, which is equally empty over the winter break, but he's headstrong and you haven't any will to argue with him.

Regulus had promised to stay up with you, to count down to the new year when it's a minute away, to be your New Year's kiss, but as you move your head up from the comfort of his chest, you see he's fallen asleep. Your first instinct is to leave him be, not to bother waking him for such a trivial thing, but it passes quickly and you march your fingers up from the bare skin of his stomach, over the purple and yellow bruise on his neck that your lips made earlier, and to his cheek which you pat lightly, kindly trying not to startle him from his sleep.

You stretch your neck, your lips brushing against his ear, as you whisper, drawing out each and every word, "Regulus, wake up, please."

You watch as he stirs, moving away from the tickling of your breath on his lobe. His eyes crack open, exposing the most beautiful shade of grey that you've ever seen. "Did I miss it?" he asks, yawning in the middle of the question.

You shake your head and glance at the clock that hangs near his bed, squinting your eyes to try and focus on it in the dimly lit room. "We have five minutes," you tell him, resting on your side, propping yourself up so you can look at him.

He looks utterly exhausted and you feel slightly guilty that you woke him up, but he smiles and says, "Don't let me fall back asleep, okay?" He blinks, trying to keep his eyes open, and you can't help but laugh.

You return to marching your fingers around his body, going across his stomach, around his head, nearly getting tangled in his dark locks, up one arm over the collarbone and down the other. He seems amused, watching you through sleep-ridden eyes with a tired smile tugging on his lips, but when you reach the thin bridges that his ribs make, he cringes as though you've pained him. You withdraw your fingers and look at him, concerned. "Are you all right?"

He nods and sighs. "I'm just really ticklish."

A sly smile spreads across your mouth and you put your hand back onto his ribcage. You ever so lightly strum the tips of your fingers and he immediately squirms, a laugh breaking the silent air of the dormitory. "_Merlin_, you are," you say, laughing with him. You tickle him again, and once more, he laughs, his back arching upwards, and then he rolls away from you, resting on his stomach.

"Stop" comes out, muffled in the emerald fabric of his pillowcase. He moves his head so he still lies on his stomach, but his eyes are free to see you. "I have a feeling I shouldn't have told you that."

You smile playfully in reply and then resume walking two of your fingers, this time up his spine, and you can feel him relax again. The slope of his back is one of the most perfect things you've ever laid eyes on, the curved bones of his rib cage protruding against taut skin every time he inhales, and you wonder how you ever survived a day without him. You look back up at the clock and see it's fifteen seconds 'til midnight. "Regulus."

He opens his eyes, which he had closed in relaxation, and you almost forget to start counting. By the time your brain is clear, you've wasted ten seconds. "Five," you start.

"Four," he says.

"Three."

"Two."

"One."

Your lips meet when the clock strikes twelve and your New Year's wish is to have him forever.


	20. killing

**xx. **_killing_

* * *

You lie close, limbs tangled with one another, the smell of smooth vodka still fresh on your lips while the heat of summer tortures your skin. You push a scrap of parchment into his hand to read when he wakes and he closes his fingers tightly around it before kissing you, toothier than usual, but the buzz is to blame.

You smile, and the fingers of his free hand tug at your red locks. "What?" he asks, looking worried and he's always a little bit paranoid and a little bit sentimental when he drinks, which is better than how his father is, as he once told you.

You push the wavy locks from his forehead that were stuck there by a light sheen of sweat and you kiss his nose. "Have I ever told you I love you?"

The words wash the worry from his visage and he smiles a smile which reaches his clouded grey eyes. He pulls you closer, if that's even possible, and your skin sticks to his and his to yours. "Once or twice," he answers, his words slurring in a way you think is beautiful and you wonder if you could capture his voice in your camera and keep those words forever.

He takes the piece of torn parchment from his hand and studies the scrawled message you wrote down. It takes him a while to read it and the whole time the voice in your head is nagging you to take it away because it's for tomorrow, but you don't. When he's finally deciphered it, his smile looks sad and you feel as though that sadness is killing you slowly, stealing all your air away and compressing your chest. "What do you mean?" he asks as he pushes the note back towards you.

And suddenly you don't know what you mean or what you meant when you wrote that down for him to read. Your mind is hazy and you wish you hadn't drunk anything because you can't think, you just can't think and you feel helpless. You take the parchment in your hand and look at it, a single word messily scratched with a heavy hand into it, the edges stained with ink. "Forever?" it asks, and you smile sadly as well when you read it. The message seemed meaningful when you wrote it, but now...well, now you aren't sure what you were asking or why.

"I'll love you forever," he says quietly, and his smile no longer makes him seem upset. "I will."

You crumple the paper between your fingers and you kiss him once more and you wonder if that's what you had meant because his answer seems to feel right in your mind.


	21. lost

**xxi. **_lost_

* * *

You cover his eyes with your hands as you guide him from the bedroom. After being unceremoniously awoken a few minutes back, you know he's not in the best of moods, but you've been planning this surprise for a while now and don't want it spoiled.

"Do you really _have _to do that?" he grumbles, refusing to move when you prod him forward.

You spin him around, moving your hands to his wrists, and pull him close to you. You peck his lips and he tries to deepen the kiss, but you move out of reach before he can. "Just do this for me, okay? I think you'll like it." You put on your best Gideon pout, which you've realized he seems almost unable to resist, and you see him cave before you.

"Fine." He puts your palms over his closed eyes and holds them in place as he turns back around.

You smile victoriously, now that he can't see you, and lead him into the kitchen. Each step is carefully taken, and yet the two of you still almost trip over one another. When he's in place, you remove your hands and hope he'll be happy with your plans.

After spending nearly a month with the youngest Black at your flat, you've come to realize that his lack of cooking skills really upsets him. He's tried desperately to make a variety of foods and, though you ate them out of pure courtesy, you both know well that the food was borderline edible and did not taste as it should. And so, you begged your elder sister to come and try to help him - her skills with food far above anything you retained from assisting your mum back when you were younger. Molly was hesitant at first, but eventually she succumbed to your pleas.

Regulus stands there, seeming lost, as he looks from your sister back to you. A nervous smile that you've seldom seen plays on his lips as he nods in acknowledgement of her presence.

You reach for his hand, squeezing it gently with reassurance. "Molly's agreed to help you with your cooking," you explain, watching for his reaction.  
You can detect the faintest reddening of his cheeks, but his smile turns warmer and, if you're not mistaken, he seems happy about the offer.

"Okay then," he says with a nod, and Molly whisks him away to begin his lesson.

You spend the morning and part of the afternoon sitting in the heated kitchen, watching your sister and Regulus make pastries, bread, chicken, and a handful of other things. Once Regulus warmed up to your sister, it seemed to you that he was having fun and toward the end was even joking with her. Though, truth be told, his cooking did not improve much, but that was only half the reason you wanted Molly here - honestly, you wanted her to see the side of Regulus you see, and you think that was accomplished fully. Regulus was scarce with his words at first, but soon he engaged himself in the conversation, speaking of how he met you, Bill, and Charlie, and different cooking disasters that have happened to him, among other things.

When you see Molly to the door, she stops in the doorway and smiles approvingly. "He's no chef," she says, with a laugh, "but I do like him."

Her approval warms your heart after dealing with Fabian's disapproval for so long; it's nice to know your sister understands even if your twin never will. You embrace her and kiss her cheek, grinning happily. "Thank you - for everything."


	22. listless

**xxii.** _listless_

* * *

"Gid," he says, looking exasperated as he stands in the middle of the room you share - well, once shared. He watches you with a grim expression as you pack your belongings into boxes and you know he doesn't believe you capable of living on your own, of living somewhere without him. "You'll regret this, I can tell."

"Regret what?" you ask, as though you didn't already know exactly what he'll say. Fabian has been harping on you day and night ever since you told him and your parents about your plans to move into a small flat in London. Your parents fully supported your decision, but your twin, however, did not, especially since you had asked Regulus to join you there, at least for the summer.

"Moving out, living with him, _being _with him — you'll regret it all." When you don't reply, he continues with, "Just stay here and we'll go train as Aurors; Merlin only knows how you even got the marks to qualify for it since you spent the year following _him _around like a little dog when you should've been revising. Don't waste all that on someone like him."

This makes you stop packing and you turn to face him. If there's one thing you've learned recently, it is that there is no use in arguing with him when it comes to Regulus. He will never understand and, quite frankly, you don't understand it either, but you do know that the Slytherin makes you happy and that's all that matters. "Fab, just don't, okay? I don't want to do this today."

"So you're really going to leave to go live with the enemy? What next, are you going to take the Mark, too?"

"I love him," you say, ignoring his harsh words and just wishing that he would accept it for once, that he would be happy purely because you're happy, but you know better than to think that will ever happen.

"You barely know him," he snaps.

Biting your bottom lip to keep from saying things you don't mean, from saying things that don't matter because he'll never change his mindset, you take your wand from your pocket."What's my Patronus?" you question, and he looks at you strangely, as though the topic has nothing to do with the previous one even though it's all the proof you need.

"A two-headed ferret," he answers as he continues to study your countenance. "Same as mine."

That is true, or at least was. You can recall the first time both of you ever cast fully corporeal Patronus charms and how, in unison, two double-headed ferrets had leapt from your wands, identical to one another in a mirrored way, as you are to him. They shared one body with two heads, just as people had joked once upon a time you did with Fabian. The thought makes you miss those times.

You focus on a memory — the first kiss you shared with Regulus — and hope it's enough to summon your Patronus at such a time. Taking a breath, you relax, and think of nothing but that day which seems as though it took place decades ago. You cast the spell and are relieved to see the bright, translucent animal spring forward from your wand. You watch Fabian's face fall and then quickly reassemble to a more listless and detached expression.

He regards the silvery animal for some time before shaking his head. "I don't see how this has anything to do with him."

"It's a Kneazle, Fab, which, like Regulus, doesn't like water and is wary until it takes a liking to a certain person."

His emotionless mask fades and now he looks more hurt than anything, with his jaw set and his eyes focusing on anything but you or your Patronus. You hadn't wanted to tell him, to show him that yours had changed because it had been something that you shared with him first and yet another thing you know he believes Regulus took from him.

It's enough to make your brother leave the room, leaving you alone to gather the rest of your things for tomorrow's departure. Before he shuts the door behind him, you hear the words "Mine is still the same," and somehow you don't feel like packing anymore.


	23. into the fire

**xxiii. into the fire**

* * *

"Who were they all?" The question breaks the silence that had filled your little nook of the library and makes your stomach twist. There was the slightest hint of jealousy present in his voice, and that was all you needed to understand the meaning of his words.

You purse your lips and you look up at him, your head using your arms as a pillow on the table. He seems more curious than anything, but the subject brought up is one which you hadn't wished to elaborate, especially after the way he acted when it had been touched upon that Christmas night. You watch as he pushes away the essay on which he had been working and leans forward, resting his head on the table just as you are. His foot nudges yours and you sigh. "Why?"

He moves his shoulders in answer. "I just want to know."

You don't think you would want to know the names of people with whom Regulus had been if you hadn't been his first and only. There would be too big a chance of unnecessary jealousy and the knowledge would be of no benefit to you. At the same time, you can understand fully why he'd wish to know and only hope he will realize that none of them matter to you anymore; none of them can compare to him. "My first was Marlene."

You watch as his brow narrows in the slightest way, a frown twitching on the edges of his lips, but he exhales and his face is expressionless once more. "How old were you?"

"Fifteen and completely stupid. She liked Fabian, not me, but I was too blind to see it. I think she still might fancy him, actually."

"How about the other three?"

You reach out and touch the protruding bone of his wrist, moving your finger in circles and zigzags over the exposed skin of his arm and hand. The mere feeling of his flesh against yours is comforting and you hope he feels the same. "There was Dorcas when I was fifteen as well, Mary when I was sixteen, and a Muggle I met last summer."

He doesn't look at you; his eyes are instead on your finger as it trails up and down his arm, maybe picturing it doing the same on the arm of one of the girls you just named.

"I didn't know you, then; if I had known, I would've waited," you tell him, because it's true; he's the only one who has ever made you feel this way and you wish you could have experienced everything first with him. You would willingly throw all those moments away into the fire of your past, to be burned and forgotten, if it meant you could start all anew with Regulus. You lean across the table and press your lips against his. "I wish you'd been my first kiss." The backs of your fingers brush over his cheek and you see a smile form on his face. "My first touch, my first shag, my first _everything_."

"I can be your last."

It's your turn to grin and you kiss him again. "I'd like that."


	24. morbid

**xxiv. morbid**

* * *

"Let's go somewhere," you had whispered in his ear at three in the morning because you had four days off from the ice cream parlor and that meant four days to spend with him. You had been dreaming, dreaming of going somewhere, anywhere away from your little London flat on the ground floor with its own doorstep, exactly fifty paces from the Leaky Cauldron. You wished for sidewalks filled with strangers speaking a language of which you could only comprehend fragments, a place with bright city lights and no hint of the war around its corners, somewhere hope filled the air and you could just forget for a moment all the pain and confusion.

The neck of a bottle of some _Beaujolais _is held between your fingers while its contents linger on your lips. You sit in the Champ de Mars, the large stretch of green grass looking out of place among the buildings surrounding its parameters. The sights are beautiful; _la tour Eiffel_ is to your left and another tower whose name you can't recall is within a turn of your head. The people walking around speak and their every word sounds as though it belongs in the line of a song and you think maybe you should've moved here and not London.

You pass Regulus the half-empty wine bottle, but he pushes it back over to you with the shake of his head. He looks out of place amongst the liveliness of this city and you realize then that he doesn't belong here under the beating sun, breathing in the smoke-filled air with the accents as smooth as the wine. He looks uncomfortable, his hands clutched tightly around the blades of grass, his dark brow knitted. He needs that grey smog and the Cockney rhyme, the sharp old ale and familiar feel of home, the place he hates and loves all in the same moment.

Paris may be for lovers but it's not for Regulus.

You rise to your feet and he rises in suit, reaching for your hand because no one seems to care here or maybe because he just needs your touch right now. You lead him a few steps over and then let go of his hand, setting your bottle down beside his feet. You move backwards, raising the camera that hangs around your neck up to your eye and you can see him through the lenses, a forced smile twisting across his lips while the tall iron tower looms behind him. The camera clicks loudly, but no one seems to notice, and the photograph slides slowly out the front.

"I've always wanted to visit here," you tell him, as you hook your arm through his and pull him close. The skin of the crook of your elbow sticks to his in the summer's warmth, and you spot two girls eying the two of you from across the park or maybe they're eying just him and, for that, you don't really blame them or anyone. You watch the pair, sipping your red wine, and as you move closer you can hear them giggle and you're secretly happy that Regulus never giggles.

"I've been a few times," he tells you, and you already knew that. Sometimes he does that, tells you things more than once, different times between gaps of days, but there's no need for it. You remember everything he says. "Just for family things, though. I was never able to look around." He takes the bottle out of your hand and drinks from it, but he's never been one for wine and his nose wrinkles with displeasure.

You scan the area and see that the only people close enough to care are those girls so you snog him, the wine tasting better coming from his lips than it ever did from the bottle. Those two still gaze on with morbid curiosity but are noticeably more slack-jawed and it makes you smile as you finally walk past them.

The rest of the day is spent roaming the crowded streets, going here and there, anywhere. Your feet dip into the water of the Seine, your tongues taste the distinctness of escargot drowned in garlic butter and the sweetness of colored macarons, and you are not the only two with hands intertwined whilst walking through Le Marais. The longer you stay, the more comfortable Regulus seems and near the end of the day, his smile doesn't look half as forced.

The stars shimmer in the sky over you two as you sit in the _en plein air _section of _Ma Bourgogne_. You watch him as he sips the coffee, cupping the smooth black cup in both of his hands. You play with the string of your tea bag, dragging it this way and that, watching as the liquid takes on a darker color. You can sense the day drawing to a close, the presence of London pressing closer with every minute spent, and you're not sure you want to go back. "Would you like living here?" you ask, trying to sound as off-hand as possible, trying to hide any sign of the foreboding feeling with which the thought of London fills you.

"What would we do here, Gid? We can't even speak French." His brow pulls in and he looks around at the surroundings, at the buildings and passing people, at the signs lit up in a language neither of you can understand and you're not sure he understands the whole of your question.

You don't care about what you would do here or how much time it would take to learn the French, you wouldn't mind getting lost in its busy streets or having to find a new job or even two, as long as it meant he was here with you. You just want him as far away from his family and fate as you can possibly get him, but you're not sure if the span of the English Channel or even the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean could save him from his future. "But, _mon amour_, we could learn," you say, keeping the conversation as lighthearted as you can despite the true implications of your words.

"Why here?"

Your first instinct is to pass his question off with a simple "_Why not?"_ but you don't. "I can't feel the war here, not like I can in London."

"I know what you mean," he says with a solemn nod. "But you'd miss your family; they couldn't just drop in like they do now, you know?"

"I'd have you."

"It's not the same."

You shrug and can tell that you won't be able to convince him, even if you truly tried. The tea no longer tastes as appealing as it had and you wish for another bottle of wine or any sort of spirits that could suppress the haunting dread that fills you. You raise your camera, hiding your forlorn expression behind it, and watch him through the viewfinder. He stares at you, grey eyes full of emotions you can't sort and his chin propped on his hand. You press the button and capture the last picture of him in the City of Lights with a frown on his face.

You return home with a miniature of _la tour Eiffel_ at which he had scoffed, handfuls of photos, and that empty feeling that always appears after fulfilling a lifelong wish. You collapse on your bed beside him, too exhausted to bother with changing out of your clothes, your legs aching from the walking done. He cuddles up next to you and he smells of Paris, the expensive wine and thousands of unfinished songs, the lack of war's worries and the aroma of _amour. _You wish that he could always be like this, but you know too well that London will soon claim him back.


	25. nightmare

**xxv.** _nightmare_

(wooo, it's been awhile!)

* * *

The crack of your Apparation is drowned out by the sound of waves breaking against the coast. Wind whips your uncut hair and rain washes the three days' worth of sadness from it that had appeared while you wouldn't leave your bed.

It's been four days since you've last seen his face.

It's dark, but you know this place well in a bone-chilling way, as though you had visited it in a nightmare that had been all you ever dreamed. It's only when you feel the sand seep between your toes that you realize you are without shoes, but that doesn't matter anymore, nothing matters.

You move forward towards the place where he once sat grinning while young Bill questioned him with childish curiosity and he was happy. Regulus may have feared the water and disliked the ocean, but he was _happy_ here and that's why you chose this place. You could've gone to the stretch of grass in Paris or that park by your flat in which you two spent hours, even to the streets of Hogsmeade where he had first kissed you, but you didn't because the smile that had graced his lips here was far beyond anything you ever witnessed in those other locations.

Regulus was happy here.

You drop to your knees in the water-soaked sand; the flannel pajamas that have grown too big for you over the past few days dampen instantly. Your hands claw into the earth; crushed sandcastles squish between fingers and scrape your skin raw, but you keep digging. The hole isn't that deep because it doesn't need to be (you don't have his body, after all), but by the time you're done, you can hardly feel your fingers, though you can see them shake as if you were standing in an earthquake.

You reach inside the inner pocket of the coat he forgot at your house during that summer and pull out a photograph. You watch as rain drops and tears drip down onto the Polaroid of Regulus sleeping in your bed. The water discolors and blurs the image, but he still looks peaceful and that's what you wished for while choosing the picture - you wanted him at peace in his grave.

The photo sways slowly into the hole, landing on the ground without a sound and you wonder if that's how he died, without a sound. Was he scared? Was it what he wanted? Why wouldn't he let you save him? You wish that burying this Polaroid would bring those answers to you, but you know it won't, you know you'll never know.

You push the sand back in its rightful place, smoothing the top so it almost looks as though it had never been disturbed, as though it doesn't hold the secret of death within it. You trail your pointer finger over it, tracing a simple heart.

"Goodbye, my love."


End file.
